Shiver
by pearypie
Summary: She is an eternal presence in his mind's eye, one he can't get rid of. But he'd be lying if he said he tried. (The One-Eyed King, in all his ivory glory, takes Rize into his arms, pinning her onto the ground as greedy fingers come to shove her skirt aside, not caring when dark crimson blood oozes from his chest, dripping onto the inside of her snow-pale thighs.)


They say Rize was the only one he feared. The lavender-haired fiend who wore the face of an angel. Of a goddess—untouchable, unreachable, _ice-cold._

They say she was the only one he feared because it was her demise that allowed him to become king and wasn't it poetic that he should fear the devil who gave? It was all terribly Shakespearean, very novel indeed, and some (like those of the theatrical kind) enjoyed perpetuating stories of myth and legend, in part for their own amusement and in part because the legacy of the One-Eyed King was one mired in such chaos that few people knew which lead to follow.

So the rumors persisted, borne out of need and necessity and a desire for alternative tragedy. It was a universally (if not bitterly) acknowledged truth that few could see into the true mind of their hybrid monarch; that even those closest to him, the ones who'd turned treetops into mountains, could not say whether his heart beat for obligation or affection. It was difficult—so difficult—to discern the emotions he wore on his face. Those layers of context that no one could read because he was once a literature student, a college boy with a fondness for books and coffee, and those multifaceted algorithms of language never truly left him.

Even when his violet queen was named, a new child in her womb, the hearsay continued and there was no one to refute such gossips.

* * *

She never left him. Not for an hour, not for a moment.

Rize lingered, sometimes in the forefront of his mind and other times, ghosting the outer edges of his consciousness, her fingertips delicately brushing at vague memories that eventually bled crimson. Memories (if they could be construed as such) that would reassemble and reconfigure until it was all he could see, until every other thought vanished and those shallow, half-formed fragments were clutched in his pale hands, cutting into flesh and bone.

"What say you, Kaneki Ken?" She teases, hands dancing around his now-broad shoulders, "have you a new rumor to give them? A few suggestions of scandal in peacetime?" Rize croons in his ear, floating inches above the ground, arms wrapped around his neck. "They're getting bored of these old tales, I can _tell._ "

 _How,_ he wants to ask—to demand, scream, question— _how can you? You're not here, you don't **exist** , you're **gone** —_

Her hands claw into his chest, digging through the fabric of his shirt (black silk? Satin? He can't remember—doesn't care to remember—not when Rize is holding him like this) until he can feel her slim fingers pressing against his still beating heart. "They don't talk enough," her cool breath sends a shiver down his spine, "they're _forgetting_ me."

"Are they?" His voice is mild—kingly—and Rize lets out a delicate, fluttering laugh. It reminds him of spider-lilies blowing against the winter breeze, of something hot and cold—a paradox he can't explain.

"You know they are." She interrupts before coherent thought can return to his brain. "Ever since that... _announcement_ —it's all they ever talk about. Not me, not _anymore._ "

If he didn't know better, he'd say she was _pouting._

"Those gossips will fade," he reassures, like he always does. "They'll vanish like the rest."

Her fingernails drag gentle rivulets of blood around his heart, toying with it as a flower girl might her bouquet. "So confident are we? No need for precautions?" She leans closer, chin resting on his shoulder. "You don't want me _gone_ do you Kaneki Ken?"

"No!" The word is instinctive—reflective—as if his body has been conditioned to respond in whichever way Rize might find most pleasing.

She presses her body against his back and Kaneki can feel every soft dip and curve—the swell of her full breasts causing a delicious friction against his spine, her rounded hips and delicate waist rubbing tantalizingly behind him, taunting and teasing—effortlessly playful.

"You haven't touched me yet." She sounds breathless, slightly uncontrolled, even if she's anything but.

There is always a method to Rize's madness.

Always, he has learned. But there is little time to ruminate.

His hands come to wrap around her wrist, to pull her hand from his chest cavity and watch as the warm, sticky blood drips down the heart-line of her palm.

"They still think I'm afraid of you." He muses, bringing one finger to his mouth.

She shivers when he places it against his tongue, sucking none too gently as his teeth cut into her skin. Rize wraps one arm around his waist, a questioning smile on her lips. "Are you not afraid anymore? Has my little Kaneki grown so big? Shall I have to stretch and accommodate and bend over for him?"

"Not when you want my mouth on you." He says in return, ignoring the utter insanity that is his fractured mind.

The One-Eyed King, in all his ivory glory, takes Rize into his arms, pinning her onto the ground as greedy fingers come to shove her skirt aside, not caring when dark crimson blood oozes from his chest, dripping onto the inside of her snow-pale thighs. She shivers at the sensation, of warm blood slipping down heated skin and the picture is so pretty that the poet in him wants to cry out.

Instead he shreds her skirts until she is naked from the waist down, hands gripping her pale thighs to spread them apart, to allow him easier access when his mouth comes to kiss the flower between her legs.

She is slick, burning wet, as sticky-sweet juices slide down her labia and Kaneki drinks her in, tongue tasting and teasing as her back arches, as breathy sighs escape her painted mouth. His hands slide to her hips, angling her higher, not caring when she gives a sharp cry of pain as he claws into her, drawing blood from open wounds. He wants to bruise her— _hurt_ her—until she is crying his name like a prayer.

Kaneki is not a religious man—not anymore—but the knife's edge of Rize's voice becomes honey soft when she's mewling and sighing, hands buried in his hair as he devours the sweetest part of her.

He licks at her swollen bud, his own mouth hot and searching as he nips and drinks, hungry and ravenous, forever wanting _more._

" _Kaneki—_ " her perfumed voice croons, so deliriously sweet as she sighs, limbs trembling and heart thrumming. She is aching with lust, so close to the precipice when her body stiffens and she throws her head back, thighs clenching as a delicious, half-gasped _Oh!_ leaves her lips.

Her orgasm comes in waves as she shudders, as she bucks her hips so he can press one lingering kiss against her core before he crawls to her, hands moving to tear fabric and lace until she is naked and bare.

A cruel, vindictive Venus.

She smiles lazily as he takes her in, a half-formed question on his lips.

Without prompt, Rize raises her arms and that is all the invitation he needs.

Like a child crawling to its mother, Kaneki snuggles his cheek between the valley of her breasts, one hand tracing the bits of flayed skin on her hips from where his nails had drawn blood. The other snakes around her shoulders, holding her close, wanting to press her into him.

He is punisher, lover, and child.

And while he does not love her, while he does not fear her, he _needs_ her—has always needed her—and will cling onto her, for as long as she will allow.

* * *

 **A/N: These two are the definition of fucked up but man oh man are they fun to write XD**

 **Feedback welcomed :)**


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